a polite “Good evening, Miss Warner” and telling me his name, he drove me in silence to the Grand Biltmore Hotel in Downtown L.A. The uniformed doorman who opened my door upon arrival directed me to the elevator bank and told me to proceed to the Paragon restaurant, located on the top floor.
As I exited the elevator, my jaw nearly fell open. The restaurant was elegantly decorated with A-line fabric backdrops of fuchsia, brown, and ivory panels. Large floral bouquets and columns of tasteful balloons reigned throughout. Near the entrance were exquisitely designed pyramids of appetizers on small round tables. Waiters and waitresses in fancy uniforms wandered between the tables and guests holding silver trays of champagne, wine, and more appetizers. Beyond this section lay dining tables that each had three ivory balloons rising from the center, small centerpiece bouquets, and crystal tea-light candleholders. The guests, primarily over fifty years old, were richly attired, the men in tuxedos and the women in variously colored gowns and dresses. I was far and away the youngest of the hundreds of people I could see.
After taking a few steps, I stopped and searched my surroundings, hoping for a glimpse of Sarah. Amid the sea of predominately black-and-white attire, without the benefit of knowing the color of her outfit or standing atop a table, staircase, or ladder, I couldn’t locate her. Several unsuccessful scans of the room later, I started to make my way into the crowd to continue my search when a thirty-something man stopped me midstride.
“Excuse me,” he said as he grabbed my forearm. I settled my gaze at his hand on my arm, and then looked pointedly at him. He didn’t take the hint, merely moving the hand from my forearm to the back of my elbow. “I didn’t think this shindig would be particularly enjoyable, but you, my dear, have made my attendance very worthwhile.” He grinned and held out his hand, finally removing his claim to my arm. “Preston Butterfield. Of the Scarsdale Butterfields.” He said this as if I’d be impressed, but it only made me think of an upscale candy, perhaps something I’d find on tonight’s dessert menu. And like a candy, Preston seemed covered in a sticky sweetness I didn’t want to get on myself. Nothing about him seemed genuine. “And you, besides gorgeous, are?”
I took his hand and donned a polite smile. “Cassidy Warner.” I didn’t want the shortened version of my name to be forever tainted by his saying of it. He turned my hand over and made a display of kissing my knuckles, which seemed like a move an overconfident person makes when mistakenly believing he’s suave. As he straightened himself, he pulled my hand toward him and gathered it in both of his while he softly caressed the back of my wrist.
“Cassidy, it’s my great pleasure to meet you. May I take your entrance as a sign that you’re flying solo at this event?”
Preston was making me feel claustrophobic and in need of a shower. I supposed some girls would find him attractive enough, with his dimpled chin, strong jaw, light-brown eyes, and dirty-blond hair. Yet I felt I’d walked onto a movie set with the male lead accidentally saying his lines to me instead of to his female co-star. He sounded as authentic as a politician. I nearly turned around to see if a teleprompter lurked behind me.
“I’m, uh, I’m meeting someone, actually.” I removed my hand from his and took the opportunity to peer past his shoulder into the crowd behind him. Where was Sarah?
“Ah, well, we’re all meeting someone tonight, aren’t we? That’s part of the point of such a gathering, after all. You and I have just met, for example, and I’m so glad we have. Tell me, Cassidy—one sec.” Preston spied a waiter passing by with a tray of filled champagne glasses. “Excuse me, sir?” Preston called out to him. The waiter stopped in front of Preston, who grabbed two glasses from the tray. He thanked the waiter, who
As I exited the elevator, my jaw nearly fell open. The restaurant was elegantly decorated with A-line fabric backdrops of fuchsia, brown, and ivory panels. Large floral bouquets and columns of tasteful balloons reigned throughout. Near the entrance were exquisitely designed pyramids of appetizers on small round tables. Waiters and waitresses in fancy uniforms wandered between the tables and guests holding silver trays of champagne, wine, and more appetizers. Beyond this section lay dining tables that each had three ivory balloons rising from the center, small centerpiece bouquets, and crystal tea-light candleholders. The guests, primarily over fifty years old, were richly attired, the men in tuxedos and the women in variously colored gowns and dresses. I was far and away the youngest of the hundreds of people I could see.
After taking a few steps, I stopped and searched my surroundings, hoping for a glimpse of Sarah. Amid the sea of predominately black-and-white attire, without the benefit of knowing the color of her outfit or standing atop a table, staircase, or ladder, I couldn’t locate her. Several unsuccessful scans of the room later, I started to make my way into the crowd to continue my search when a thirty-something man stopped me midstride.
“Excuse me,” he said as he grabbed my forearm. I settled my gaze at his hand on my arm, and then looked pointedly at him. He didn’t take the hint, merely moving the hand from my forearm to the back of my elbow. “I didn’t think this shindig would be particularly enjoyable, but you, my dear, have made my attendance very worthwhile.” He grinned and held out his hand, finally removing his claim to my arm. “Preston Butterfield. Of the Scarsdale Butterfields.” He said this as if I’d be impressed, but it only made me think of an upscale candy, perhaps something I’d find on tonight’s dessert menu. And like a candy, Preston seemed covered in a sticky sweetness I didn’t want to get on myself. Nothing about him seemed genuine. “And you, besides gorgeous, are?”
I took his hand and donned a polite smile. “Cassidy Warner.” I didn’t want the shortened version of my name to be forever tainted by his saying of it. He turned my hand over and made a display of kissing my knuckles, which seemed like a move an overconfident person makes when mistakenly believing he’s suave. As he straightened himself, he pulled my hand toward him and gathered it in both of his while he softly caressed the back of my wrist.
“Cassidy, it’s my great pleasure to meet you. May I take your entrance as a sign that you’re flying solo at this event?”
Preston was making me feel claustrophobic and in need of a shower. I supposed some girls would find him attractive enough, with his dimpled chin, strong jaw, light-brown eyes, and dirty-blond hair. Yet I felt I’d walked onto a movie set with the male lead accidentally saying his lines to me instead of to his female co-star. He sounded as authentic as a politician. I nearly turned around to see if a teleprompter lurked behind me.
“I’m, uh, I’m meeting someone, actually.” I removed my hand from his and took the opportunity to peer past his shoulder into the crowd behind him. Where was Sarah?
“Ah, well, we’re all meeting someone tonight, aren’t we? That’s part of the point of such a gathering, after all. You and I have just met, for example, and I’m so glad we have. Tell me, Cassidy—one sec.” Preston spied a waiter passing by with a tray of filled champagne glasses. “Excuse me, sir?” Preston called out to him. The waiter stopped in front of Preston, who grabbed two glasses from the tray. He thanked the waiter, who
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